Page 5

M iss Caroline Brent, seated close to Belinda in a private box at the Burbage Theater, nudged her companion.

“This is much more exciting than the Lyon’s Den.”

“Hush, or Roland will hear you. Besides, this is the denouement.”

Belinda remained with her eyes fixed on the stage, elated and amused and with no desire to miss the last few words of the play, which were bound to be the very best.

Moments later, the audience clapped and shouted its appreciation while the exhausted players bowed and curtsied their thanks upon the stage.

Roland sighed and turned to Belinda. “Splendid. I’m so glad that your megrim vanished in time and you were able to come. You’re having a lot of headaches lately—I do hope the excitement of coming out tonight won’t bring on another one tomorrow.”

In actual fact, it would, but it would be another faked one. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had tasked her with going to the fish market the following morning, and Roland must never find out that she was sneaking about the town dressed as a kitchen maid, even if chaperoned by Caroline.

Staring at his open, anxious face, Belinda wished she weren’t having to lie to him. He was such a good soul really, if a somewhat directionless young gentleman. Easily taken advantage of, she suspected. Just as she was doing now.

She forced down her guilt and gave him her best smile.

“Thank you so much for bringing us. I’m sorry I’ve been so boring these past few days, and not able to go out in the evenings.

But tonight’s performance has been hugely enjoyable.

I’m so thrilled to discover that The Rover was written by a woman!

” She leaned closer to him, adding, “The idea of a woman dressing up in men’s clothes is most certainly not a new one. ”

He laughed, his blue eyes sparkling, and she was able to breathe easily again.

She was doing the right thing in trying to get him reinstated at the Lyon’s Den by getting into Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s good offices.

The happier Roland was, the more likely he would be to succeed in life—once he’d finally decided in which direction to go.

His brother the earl, and Minty, would be delighted if ever this miracle were to occur.

However, Roland’s smile didn’t last long.

“I declare—there’s Mr. Darvill, looking smug as usual with one of his paramours on his arm.

I don’t know why he has to go to other people’s theaters when he already has one of his own.

I have decidedly gone off the man since he outed us to the Lyon’s Den management.

You’d think he would be a sport, wouldn’t you?

And Mrs. Dove-Lyon herself, considering some of the high jinks people get up to in her establishment, should have let us off. Devil take the pair of them.”

Belinda’s heart gave a peculiar flutter.

She followed Roland’s gaze and stared at the man who had interfered with her carefully laid plans and forced her into Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s employ.

Unpaid employ, in fact. Every moment, she felt as if she were walking on eggshells, desperate to stop her family learning of this latest disgrace.

Thankfully, Darvill didn’t recognize her when complimenting her on her soup, as he’d last seen her masked and dressed as a man. But she’d fervently hoped that, after that awkward and frankly terrifying moment in the Lyon’s Den kitchen, she’d never set eyes on him again.

There was a tingling in her fingers and toes that always presaged an attack of nerves. Springing to her feet, she drew in several quick, deep breaths. The last thing she wanted to do at the theater was swoon and draw attention to herself. Especially not Piers Darvill’s attention.

“Are you feeling quite well, Belinda? You’ve gone pale.”

Belinda took Caroline’s hand. Her friend and co-conspirator knew of the depressive illness she’d suffered in the past and of her nervous disposition.

Their friendship had gone a good way to curing Belinda, as had the many happy hours she’d spent assisting Caroline Brent with the children at the Foundling Hospital when it was still based in London.

“I just need a little air.” Taking up the opera glasses she’d left lying on her seat, Belinda stepped into a patch of shadow and trained them on the box opposite.

The gentleman and lady therein appeared unaware of her perusal. Their heads were close together, and they were in animated discussion over something in a book the lady was holding.

Gentleman? Hah! She would never consider Piers Darvill a gentleman.

He had no title anyway, so he represented Trade and was lucky that the ton had accepted him at all.

But he was, she’d discovered, unmarried, so he’d been welcomed with open arms since he was also rich, well-connected, and not at all unpleasant to look at.

The woman with him was dressed in the height of fashion, if garishly, with a nodding ostrich feather in her silk turban, a gown cut too low, and an enviable string of gems glittering around her throat.

A present from her admirer, no doubt. The colors in the materials were too bright, too translucent, and there was an excessive amount of sparkle about the lady’s person.

This proclaimed her as someone who couldn’t afford more expensive and tasteful attire—although, if she was Darvill’s chère amie, he’d chosen the outfit for her.

No surprise, then, that it looked tawdry.

Belinda pressed her gloved hand against her breast. How dreadful of her to think so unkindly of the pair!

The man had done her a great disservice, but that was no excuse for being high-and-mighty!

And there were probably far more decent people amongst the wealthy commoners of this country than there were amongst the highest in the land.

If Darvill wanted to consort with colorful concubines and melodramatic opera dancers, that was his prerogative.

She didn’t care one way or the other. He wasn’t worth another moment’s thought.

“Belinda, what are you doing? We’re leaving now.”

She put the opera glasses down and took up her cloak.

“Oh, is there any hurry? I was enjoying looking at the draperies. I mean, the decoration is very fine, is it not?” They must give Darvill and his lady friend time to finish examining the book and get ahead of them.

It would be awkward enough for Roland to come face-to-face with his nemesis, but even worse if she were to encounter him and be recognized from the Lyon’s Den kitchen.

Then Roland would find out she’d been fooling him, her scheme would be wrecked, and she’d have to resign herself to the status of maiden aunt. So to speak.

Luck was with them. When they eventually joined the throng of well-dressed theatergoers in the mass exodus toward their carriages, she could see that Darvill and the dark beauty were ahead.

The handsome couple had just stepped past the cheerful glow emanating from the theater when a small figure darted up to Darvill, stuck its hand into his breeches pocket, then hared off into the crowd.

Belinda gasped, and forgetting what the consequences of such a meeting would be, pushed through the crowd and caught Darvill’s arm. He turned around and stared at her, astonished, while his companion peered around his broad shoulder and submitted Belinda to a searching appraisal.

“Goodness, madam—what’s amiss? Are you in need of assistance?”

She hadn’t expected gallantry and was temporarily at a loss for words. She tapped her foot irritably.

“No, sir—it is you who needs help. Did you not feel the hand of that pickpocket? He’s probably helped himself to your watch and your sovereign purse.

The boy hurtled off in that direction.” She pointed, but there was no running figure to be seen—was it too late already?

“Hadn’t you better call the Law on him?”

Darvill felt in his pocket and his expression changed. His jaw set and his eyes flashed like obsidian. “I think, ma’am, that you’re mistaken. Nothing’s been taken from my pocket. Perhaps it was someone else who was the victim here, and you’ve confused me with them.”

She stared up at him. With his impressive height, dark eyes, and thick, curling hair, he could not easily be mistaken for anybody else. Not only was he sinfully handsome, but he also had an effortless air of authority.

Perhaps that was how he’d made a success of his life. She didn’t know, and she most certainly didn’t care. Drawing herself up to her full—though not very impressive—height, she snapped, “I know what I saw. Apologies for attempting to do you a favor. I’ll make sure never to repeat my error.”

He sucked in a breath, but she didn’t wait for his next pronouncement. Instead, she marched back to Caroline, grabbed her, and pulled her off in the direction the pickpocket had taken.

“Where are we going? Why are we running down this street? This isn’t where we left the carriage. Shouldn’t we be waiting for Roland? He won’t be a moment.”

“This won’t take long. I just saw a street urchin pick a gentleman’s pocket. The man doesn’t seem concerned—as a matter of fact, he denied it. But that boy’s in danger of falling into evil ways and I need to do something.”

“Belinda, please. You cannot save every godless child in London. He’s probably part of a large family of thieves, tricksters, and cutthroats.”

Caroline tugged on her arm but Belinda freed herself.

“You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to, Caroline.

But I would have thought that you, a teacher of orphans and abandoned children, would want to make sure that the child changes his ways before he becomes a victim of our unfair justice system.

If I can catch him, and make him give the watch—or whatever it was—back, no harm will be done. ”

Caroline dug her heels in and pulled Belinda to a halt. “I can’t see any movement down there. We’re on a wild goose chase.”